


After The Ball

by Onguarde



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Masquerade, Non-Consensual, Smut, Threats, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 19:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20120677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onguarde/pseuds/Onguarde
Summary: Christine and Erik after the Masquerade Ball, except Erik is an absuive asshole.Drabble.





	After The Ball

“Quiet, Christine.” Erik hissed through gritted teeth.  
He hooked a gnarled thumb over her lip and dragged it down to find a row of pearly teeth, all while she pumped him furiously with one hand. Soon he felt her already sloppy movements deteriorating even further and he grabbed a fistful of her hair to anchor her pretty face close to his. Christine sucked in a breath.  
“You’re pushing your luck, little Pandora.” He spat each bitter word in the girl’s face before hurling her back a few feet across the floor. Letting out a small whimper in response, she climbed back onto her knees and curled her shaking fist around his wet length. Again she pumped him, biting her fleshy lip as her tired arm began to ache and the skin of her palm turned to static. 

Erik leaned back in his throne, half dressed in his Red Death garments, but missing the cape and vest, and her in the signature masquerade frock. His eyes watched her like moons behind the cranium mask as she worked, silent and omniscient, and she was so mortified by the yellow stare that she had to look another way. But her hand kept working his shaft vigorously, waiting for that spurt of release that would signal her right to finally leave. 

A hand dove beneath her chin to lift it and there it was again, that _fucking _stare. She swallowed audibly but her hand never stopped, never faltered. It wouldn’t dare. The gaze was held for a long minute but he said nothing, absolutely nothing and she wish he did because she couldn’t maintain her composure when those haunting eyes were upon her. He was a rabid dog and she was his prey, and if she were to do one wrong thing he’d be upon her in an instant. 

She didn’t realise she was crying until she felt the wet heat on her cheeks and heard his mocking laughter booming from above.  
“Monsieur don’t mock me now, I pray,” she whispered, voice high and strained from the closing feeling in her throat as she weeped, “It’s bad enough I’ve lost my pride.“  
“Oh, but you haven’t. Not yet, Miss Daaé, this is nothing.”  
“You will _not_ have me Erik.” She spat back, but now she wished she hadn’t because she was convinced the slap she received in return had knocked her jaw right from its hinges. She sat, head spinning, as she palmed the red imprint quickly forming on her cheek.  
“Are you so sure?” He mocked, a smile curling over his thin lips behind the mask, and pulled her harshly onto her feet. And before she could realise it, he’d bunched her skirts above her waist and bent her over the throne in which he was sat on just moments prior. 

There was pressure, on her rear, as he crushed her legs apart with one knee and pushed his hardened self into the cleft of her ass. The way she writhed desperately to find something to hold onto was amusing to him, and he laughed when she almost lost her balance after landing a hard slap on her ass.  
“Unhand me! You sad beast, unhand me _now!_” She shrieked.

“Bold of you, Christine. Your efforts should be admired.” He spoke softly, like a standing river, before he raised a hand above her head. At first she braced herself for another hit, but it never came. Instead, that hand snaked along her cheek and caressed it, sweet and considerate, before tying itself around a tangle of her hair. “Does the Vicomte give you credit for your valiance?” He exhaled in her ear, to which he received no answer.  
“Does he?” The man repeated with a slam of his hips that sent her flying forward. Now crushed against the seat, Christine cried out, “No, Monsieur, he does not!” and was yanked back against his hips. A trembling sob fell from her and he scoffed, hooking her underwear to the side and exposing the most vulnerable part of her.

She felt hot musk on that same part and realised he had dropped on his knees behind her, with two calloused hands planted on each leg to stabilise her body as he removed the jaw piece of his mask and buried his face between her legs. His tongue, she felt it, prodding within, all greasy and vile and she had to fight the urge to retch at the sensation. It explored her, not just the entrails but her outer part, too, and he cast his attention on that pearl right at the top.  
Her legs trembled with shock after shock that seared down them, but they were disgusting and unwanted and all things vile, and she felt at war with herself when her hips began to rock against his face, despite her wishes.  
He took this as an invitation and plunged two gnarled fingers within, curling them in ways that made her gasp and whine and stimulating Christine in places she never even knew existed. He watched absently as her head whipped forward and her good side was lost to the thrill of their act.

Erik rose, at long last, and she heard the fumbling of zippers before she felt something him press against her slick opening, and soon he was inside, emmiting a scream from her and a relieved sigh from him. The rest of his length followed, which her body so kindly cushioned as his hips pressed harder and harder against hers.  
“Come, _Bella_, why so tense?” Came his voice from behind her, sour like spoiled milk and she had to shake her head, hoping it would clear her from this situation but she remained there with her legs spread wide for his entry. 

He began to move his hips, slowly at first, how considerate, but he soon created a rigorous rhythm that sent her forward with each notion. Her teeth snapped shut on the red flesh of her lips to silence herself. She couldn’t deny that it felt good but she couldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing, she couldn’t live with that sly grin palpable in his words, and so she was forever grateful that she was positioned in such a way that she didn’t have to face him frontly. 

At last his pace grew uneven, sloppy, and she heard him grunt from behind her before laying his weight on her back, and she felt a wet warmth seeping down the curvature of her thighs when he finally unlatched. There was tired panting for a few moments, then silence, and she knew he was admiring his work before he flattened the skirts of her dress over her hips to cover her. 

“May I leave now?” She said in a weak little voice as she stared at the ground beneath her feet.  
“Of course, Madame, be my guest. What an absurd question to ask!”  
And she left as quickly as her legs would allow her, but not quickly enough to miss his final words,

“Be here again tomorrow night.”


End file.
